Winds of Fate [Books I-III]

Chapter Ninety-Three: Heavy Is The Head That Wears The Cocked Hat

March 2nd 1720, Present Day
Tortuga

Embellished and dressed to kill - with her golden hilted rapier strung by her hip and four pistols slung over her chest, Eleanore takes a last look in front of the mirror. Her friends have left her a few minutes ago to dress up themselves, and she is more than grateful for this moment of silence... before she enters the lions' den.

She had since unbuttoned a few at the top of her suit, so that it gapes, and her shirt slit shows skin. Anton would probably not appreciate her flaunting her assets in a seedy town, but eerily a sense of triumph and confidence alights her senses, lending her enough candor to see herself not as Lenore, or Elle, or Nellie anymore.

"Captain Smith," she whispers, but drops it immediately.

Captain Smith.

Echoes of Royal Navy men fill her mind. She grasps the edge of the gilded mirror, taking a deep breath to free her tight chest. Papa was once Captain Smith. If the world had been fair, if the devils were in their prisons, she would not have gotten the same title. She would have been Miss Eleanore Smith - Admiral George Smith's sheltered but rebellious daughter.

"They wouldn't be proud of me anyway." Eleanore sighs. "What loving parent would?" Mama wasn't, and she made sure Eleanore knows that. The limited time they had saved her from an earful of her mother's wrath, but the scowl on Mama's face and disappointment in her tone was enough.

And Papa. Her shoulders sink. If he were alive, he would no doubt lock her in her room. Perhaps not let her be tried by the Admiralty Court, because he loves her too much for that. He would probably even pay for her ransom...

But he would most certainly ship her away to a distant colony in North America.

She shrugs. At least Miss Smith would have had her parents here to berate her. Eleanore winks at her reflection. "We'll make the best out of it instead, right? No turning back now."

"Of courrrse!" Torkin pipes up, dragging her black cocked hat on the dresser table.

"Thank you, dear." She giggles and puts it on. Torkin flies, settling on her shoulder. "Let's go!"

~*~

She has a mixed relationship with taverns. On one hand, Eleanore enjoys the promise of freedom and wildness it holds - no one judges anyone, so long as you don't touch their things or their ladies. On the other, she absolutely disdains the stinging stench of vomit riding on the heady scents of the alcohols; the sweat, grime, and  blood staining the furniture; and above all, nothing makes her skin crawl, her heart thump hard, than boisterous laughter, random moans, yelling and curses darting right and left, over and under, leaving her head pounding with nausea before she could even take another step.

A rum bottle flies to her left.

Crunch! 

It shatters at the doorway, raining glass down the floor. Torkin leans down to peer at it.

"Welcome to me too." She smirks, pulling down the cocked hat. The attention could wait, for now she must find her crew first. Eleanore slithers alongside the walls of the tavern, hands braced in front of her to dodge sweaty bodies away from her new suit. But no one, not one, recognizes her as a woman in the roundabout she had to take until she settles in the quiet cranny behind the tavern's staircase that James had reserved for Sparta's crewmembers. Every one is there, save for two people.

James raises a hand and nods, bleached hair tied up in a red bandanna. He sits at left side of the head of the table, where she takes her place. Aggy is at his other side, busy conversing with Puck and Madeline. Eleanore raises a brow. Her faithful crew had taken to drinking again. Victor holding a bottle in each hand, cajoling with Ben across from him who grasps a mug full of ale.